Salvation in the Sheriff's Kiss

Given their parting seven years ago and the circumstances surrounding it, he had to expect he’d be the last person she’d want to see. If only he’d cooled his heels long enough yesterday to remember that before he went barreling over there to pound on her door.

Hindsight was a rather smug beast.

He lifted his head and leaned back in his chair, swinging his feet up onto the corner of his desk. Her return had set him on edge, no doubt about it. If he’d thought he had locked away their past and put it to rest, her arrival had proved him wrong. On first sight of her, everything had come rushing back in a tidal wave of memories. The good. The bad. The incredibly ugly.

To this day he still wasn’t sure which one outweighed the other. He couldn’t think of the good without the bad and ugly creeping in, and so he’d put them all away. Tucked them down deep where he didn’t have to look at them or face what he had done. It had been hard enough to do when she wasn’t here. He suspected it was going to be damned near impossible if she was front and center in his life day in and day out.

He needed to convince her to return to Boston. This time, however, it was for his safety, not hers.

It didn’t help matters that he’d spent the better part of the night tossing and turning trying to figure out how he was going to accomplish such a feat when it was obvious she wasn’t interested in one word that came out of his mouth. By the wee hours of the morning he was no closer to a solution. He’d dressed and come downstairs to his office to relieve Jenkins. With Bill Yucton’s penchant for escape, he wasn’t taking any chance of leaving the man unwatched.

He pushed himself out of his chair and crossed over to the woodstove, stoking the fire to ward off the cold creeping down from the mountains. He poured another cup of coffee. He had hoped the first cup would awaken enough of his faculties to force the image of Meredith from his mind, but he was three mugs in now and her image still lingered. A strange mesh of the girl from his memories and the woman she had become.

Time had left her skin smooth, untouched. The freckles he remembered were no longer in evidence. Her ivory skin did not appear to have met with the sun’s rays in some time. Maybe it didn’t shine much in Boston. And her eyes. Lord help him. The cornflower blue seemed even more brilliant against her flawless skin than he remembered. They’d stared at him in surprise when she first opened the door. He watched myriad emotions scuttle across them like fast-moving clouds when a storm was brewing.

Her words drifted back to him as they had over and over again through the night.

I plan on proving my father’s innocence once and for all.

That could prove problematic.

He took a sip from his mug and winced. The sludge tasted like a disgusting mixture of burnt tree bark and dirt. He should have let Jenkins make a pot before he took Yucton to the bathhouse. He’d enlisted Kincaid’s aid in transporting the prisoner. The bounty hunter had been none too pleased to be roused from his slumber, but since he’d taken to bunking in the empty cell to sleep off his latest bender, Hunter figured he wasn’t in a position to argue.

Besides, he needed some time to think.

The return of Bill Yucton and Meredith Connolly at the same time was a bit too coincidental for him to swallow. He’d never put much faith in happenstance. Then again, he hadn’t put much faith in anything of late.

He stared at the narrow file cabinet wedged under the small window next to his desk. He kept meticulous files, a trait McLaren had not shared and not one Jenkins seemed inclined to pick up. He’d had to go into the bottom three drawers repeatedly to refile whatever he’d given to Jenkins. It was as if the boy had never been introduced to the alphabet.

But the top drawer he’d left alone. It had been two years since he’d opened it and pulled out the worn leather notebook. Years earlier, he’d gone over its contents six ways from Sunday, reread every word he’d put into it in the vain hope they would reveal whatever it was he was missing. They hadn’t, and so he’d stuck it in the drawer and tried his best to wash his hands of it.

Dig deeper...the trial...syndicate...

The words had confused him at the time and haunted him ever since.

Sheriff McLaren had been like a father figure to him, more so than his own father ever had. In the wake of his death, Hunter had done his best to look at Abbott Connolly’s trial from every direction. But in the end, it was what it was. A straightforward case of cattle rustling with one alleged accomplice saying he was there and another claiming he wasn’t. If they hadn’t found a few of the stolen cattle on Abbott’s small piece of property perhaps the trial would have had a different outcome, but they had found the cattle, and in the end, it was all the jury needed to convict.

Hunter walked over to the cabinet and pulled at the top drawer. It stuck, as if telling him what he already knew. He was wasting his time. No amount of digging on his part had revealed any great secret or explained what Sheriff McLaren had meant by syndicate. His dying declaration remained a mystery and Hunter had been forced to accept the fact it meant nothing. Likely the fatal wound he’d suffered had left him confused in his last moments of life and he’d simply been rambling. Doc Whyte said that could happen.

Still...

The memory of that day continued to trouble him. He’d come upon the scene too late. McLaren had been coming back from a routine checkup on old Mrs. Dunlop when he was gunned down by two men in cold blood. Hunter had heard the shots and come running. The shooters had taken off, no reason or explanation given for the attack, and McLaren lay dying in the street. He gripped Hunter’s wrist when he reached him and his eyes, though filled with pain, were sharp and alert. The man knew he was dying. He’d gathered what was left of his strength and pushed out the words with the last beats of his heart.

It had to mean something! But what? And why? If Abbott knew, he wasn’t talking. No one was.

He gave the drawer another yank, harder this time. It opened with reticence, the leather notebook exactly where he’d left it two years ago. He reached in and fingered the twine wrapped around it. He didn’t need to look inside. He’d long since memorized every note he’d written. It wasn’t much.

Outside, the steady chink of chains and boots moving in tandem on the planked walkway heralded the prisoner’s return. Hunter slammed the drawer shut and turned toward the door as Yucton crossed the threshold, Jenkins close on his heels. Kincaid was nowhere to be seen.

As if reading his mind, Jenkins hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Kincaid stopped on the way back for a drink. But we got the stink washed off ole Bill here and he’s clean as a whistle. Willie gave him a change of clothes jus’ while his own are gettin’ laundered.”

Hunter ground his teeth together, his mood souring by the minute. He wanted to continue his conversation with Kincaid. The man knew more than he was saying. Hunter had sent Meredith away once before for her own safety. If there was any kind of a threat being resurrected by Yucton’s trial, he needed to know. He’d be damned if he let any harm come to her after what he’d given up to secure her safety in the first place.

“Much obliged for the bath,” Yucton said, reaching up with both hands to tip the brim of his hat, but the chains prevented him from reaching. He inclined his head instead, as if they’d done him a favor.

“Wasn’t doing it for you, Yucton. Quite frankly, I was getting tired of smelling you.”

A low rumble emanated from Yucton’s chest as Jenkins opened the middle cell door and waited for him to walk inside before he reached through the bars to unlock the shackles. Despite his best efforts, Hunter had yet to get a rise out of his prisoner or to figure out why he’d willingly returned to Salvation Falls.

Jenkins walked over to the hook next to the woodstove and hung the shackles on it. “Heard you paid Meredith a visit yesterday.”

Hunter scowled. News in this town moved with the swiftness of a wildfire caught in the wind.

“I did.” He didn’t bother mentioning it had been a disaster. He preferred to keep his private business just that—private.

Jenkins, on the other hand, had no such compunction. “Heard it didn’t go so good?”

“And where did you hear that?”

“Mrs. Bancroft mentioned it to Eunice at the pie shop who told Saul over at the bakery and when I went past he told me. Said Mrs. Bancroft claimed she’d run into you in the hallway at the Klein and it looked like the two of you were exchanging words. Said you had your foot stuck in her doorway so she couldn’t close it.”

Fantastic. That’s all he needed—people jawing about him and Meredith. It had created enough of a stir the first time around, given their family histories.

“This town needs to mind its own business. Now go find Kincaid and make sure he isn’t so far into the whiskey he’s passed out by noon.” He barked the last order harsher than he needed to.

“Sure thing, boss,” Jenkins said, his affable manner never showing any signs of the rebuke he’d just received. His deputy was so good-natured Hunter worried he’d never develop what it took to take over as Sheriff. Hunter was tough on him, maybe tougher than he needed to be, but he knew what this job required, what it could take out of you. Oftentimes, you had to make hard choices. Jenkins needed to be prepared for that.

He wished he had been.

“That Abbott Connolly’s girl you’re talkin’ about?”

Hunter turned and stared into the middle cell. Yucton leaned forward, his arms resting against the crossbar. He’d pushed the hat back from his face revealing the plethora of lines beaten into it from a lifetime of hard living.

“It might be.” He eyed Yucton with caution.

“Real shame about what happened to that family.” His expression remained unchanged, but something in the prisoner’s tone had changed. Hardened. “Ain’t it, Sheriff?”

The small hairs on the back of Hunter’s neck prickled. “You got something you want to say about it?”

“Believe I just did.”

Hunter gave Yucton a fierce glare but the man didn’t flinch. He was a cool customer. Hunter was both irritated and impressed.

“Given you’re being tried for the same crime Connolly committed, I’d think you’d be a bit more concerned about yourself and not his kin. Especially given how things ended up for him.”

“I’ll worry about myself. You just worry about Abbott’s girl.”

The hairs on his neck now stood at full attention. “Why would I do that?”

“You ever hear tell of a group called the Syndicate?”

Hunter froze. “No. What does this Syndicate have to do with Meredith?”

Yucton stared at him for a long, silent moment. “You just make sure you keep her safe. Believe you made promises in that regard. Am I right?”

Hunter’s throat closed and his heart pounded deep inside his chest. “What do you know about it?”

“Maybe Abbott trusted you, but I haven’t made up my mind about that. You’re still a Donovan, after all.”

Hunter took a step closer to the cell. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Yucton didn’t answer him. He pushed away from the bars and returned to his bed. “You just keep her safe. That’s all you need to know.”

But it wasn’t all he needed to know. Not now that another piece had been added to the puzzle of McLaren’s last words. When Hunter had made his promise to protect Meredith years before, it had been made blindly to a father desperate to protect his daughter. At the time, Hunter had thought Abbott had been worried about leaving her alone in the world, her reputation damaged by the verdict delivered upon him. Now he wasn’t so sure.

But if Yucton had the answers, he kept them to himself as he lay down and pulled his hat over his face, cutting off any further conversation. In the silence, the outlaw’s words rang in Hunter’s ears and slithered like poison through his veins.

You’re still a Donovan after all.

He was nothing like his father. Everyone in town knew that. At least, he hoped they did. He’d spent most of his adult life trying to prove it, as if by doing good he could erase the horrible moment when he kept his promise to a convicted thief and broke the heart of the woman he loved.

Not that it mattered now, he supposed. Meredith was back and it was clear her animosity toward him still boiled beneath the surface. And all the good he’d tried to do as sheriff, the life he’d built, such as it was, was coming to an end. The truth of it chafed hard against his soul. His future opened up before him like a yawning abyss. But one thing was for certain—before he turned in his badge and accepted his fate, he was going to get to the bottom of whatever was going on.

Which meant another conversation with Meredith Connolly.

* * *

Meredith pulled the wool shawl tightly around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the late-autumn morning. She had almost forgotten the feel of Colorado in November. Not that it didn’t get cold in Boston, but it was a different cold, coming off the water in the harbor and giving the air a sense of salty dampness. Here the cold had a brittle quality to it, as if you could reach out and snap it in half.

She took a deep breath and let its freshness fill her lungs in the hopes it would give her courage. Bertram had offered to escort her this morning, but she had declined. She wanted her first visit with her father to be on her own. She wasn’t certain she could maintain her composure and she didn’t want Bertram to see her break down. She couldn’t afford weakness. She needed to remain strong.

Easier said than done. Her plan had already been put in jeopardy by Hunter’s surprise visit. Seeing him had left her shaken, the memories rushing back and assaulting her from all sides. She tried to avoid them, skirt around them, but they showed her no mercy. Further proof love was to be avoided at all cost. Even when it was over it refused to leave you in peace.

She walked to the church and turned onto the narrow dirt road across the street from the white clapboard building, its spire cutting like a sword into the stark gray sky. Graves dotted the horizon, more than she remembered, each one punctuating the passage of time. Despite the added population and slight change to the landscape, Meredith needed no assistance in finding her way. She had walked the pathway a hundred times over in her memories.

The crisp morning breeze ruffled her hair and nipped at her skin. She paid it little heed as she trudged on, following the winding path toward the thick oak tree in the distance. Beneath it, her mother had rested these past seven years. Her father, for only one month.

She stopped at the top of the hill and walked to the outer edge of the tree’s reach. Gathering her skirts, she knelt between the two markers, one made of stone faded and already weathered by time, the other a wooden cross bearing Pa’s name and dates indicating the start of his life, and its end. She would have the stone mason carve a proper headstone to match Mama’s, but not yet.

She wanted the words beneath his name to read an innocent man, and have everyone in town know the words as truth.

“Good morning, Mama.” She touched the browning grass where it covered her mother’s final resting place. Someone had been keeping the grave up. It was free of weeds and a small bouquet of hardy autumn flowers tied with string had been placed in front, weighted down by a rock on their stems. Bertram likely, though he hadn’t mentioned it. Either way, she was touched by the gesture, by the idea that someone had watched over Mama when she had been unable to. She would make a point to thank him.

Meredith reached out and touched the flowers, wilted and brittle now, their colors faded. Much like her memories. She would never forget her mother—that was impossible. But sometimes, when she tried to capture the full picture in her mind, so many facets were muted. The sound of her laughter had become distant, the way light danced in her eyes, the sharp, delicate bones of her face. She could see one at a time, but never all at once. A deep sadness invaded her bones and seeped into her heart.

“I came home, Mama.”

She knew that would please her mother. She’d always loved having her small family close. Thrived on it. She’d lost her own parents at an early age and had been forced to fend for herself. A dangerous proposition for a woman, but Mama had managed. She’d found work cleaning house for the Donovans. It put food in her belly and a roof over her head. For a while, her mama said, it had been enough. But then things changed. The elder Donovans passed away, and their son, Vernon, developed ideas she didn’t agree with. At the same time, she met Meredith’s father, and after that—she remembered her mother’s smile when she told this part of the story—her whole life changed.

It had made Meredith believe in love, at least for a little while. But she’d long since shelved that belief. As much as love could lift you up it could just as easily throw you down. And the landing left you broken and battered beyond repair.

Meredith wondered if her mother had any inclination then how much her rejection of Vernon Donovan would change the course of their lives.

Meredith shifted her weight and faced her father’s grave. The newly tilled ground formed a gentle mound. He’d rested here only a month and the grass had not had time to take hold before the cold weather swooped down in earnest and impeded its growth.

Her fingers ran over the dates burned into the wood. The last image she had of her father was sitting in the cell at the sheriff’s office before he was transported to prison in Laramie. He’d refused to let her come with him. He’d been adamant about it and enlisted Hunter’s help to keep her in Salvation Falls.

But Hunter had had other ideas.

The memories of that horrible time beat against her without remorse. A sob welled up in her throat. She tried to swallow it down as she always did but it refused to budge, demanded its freedom. Meredith fought it as best she could, but it was no use. Somewhere inside she had believed things would right themselves, but they never had

“Oh, Pa...”

The sob erupted from her, and behind it came all the others she had suppressed over the years. Tears obscured her view. She tried to fight them, but it was no use. Her strength gave out and she let her body fall across his grave. The need to hold Pa just one last time, to feel the safety of his arms, his gentle voice telling her everything would be fine, overwhelmed her. She cried unrestrained, all the pent-up emotion she’d held in for so long pouring out with her tears. She’d lost everyone she’d loved: Mama to illness, Pa to injustice, Hunter to betrayal.

She consoled herself with the fact she would never need to know loss again, but it was cold comfort and it only made the tears come harder.

* * *

Hunter hesitated, not wanting to disturb such a private moment, but the shaking of Meredith’s shoulders and muffled sobs were enough to get his feet moving before his brain or common sense could catch up.

He slowed as he reached her, thrown across her pa’s grave. She hadn’t heard him approach and he wasn’t sure how to let her know he was there. Given their last interaction, he doubted she would appreciate his intrusion. Still, he couldn’t just walk away when she was in distress.

He crouched down. The hard ground and dry grass crunched beneath his weight.

“Meredith?”

Chapter Four

Hunter placed a hand on Meredith’s back. The contact was exhilarating, which was almost as disconcerting as her tears. He wasn’t sure what to do about either. Seeing her so distraught cut into him, finding every last crack in the walls around his heart and seeping through until their foundations began to crumble. God help him. He thought he was stronger than this.

Meredith whirled about, dislodging his hand. Her hair slipping free from its pins on one side creating a cascade of curls that bounced against her shoulder. A smudge of dirt bruised her cheekbone. The disarray reminded him of the girl he’d once known and a strong keening pierced his insides.

“What are you doing here?”

She wore another fancy dress today, this one a light copper with odd swirly designs on it in red and blue. The color somehow made her eyes even bluer. Or maybe that was the sheen of tears.

“Uh...” He’d tried not to glance down at the bouquet of flowers in his hand. They seemed a bit pathetic, small and inconsequential, but when he attempted to move the flowers out of her line of sight, she caught the motion. Her gaze flitted from the flowers in his hand to the withered batch on her mother’s grave before returning it to him. She hiccupped then sniffed.

“You?” Disbelief filled her voice. She blinked, her lashes spiky from the tears.

He supposed it would be a bit ridiculous to deny it. He’d been caught red-handed, so to speak. Still, how did he explain it to her? He’d been doing it regularly since she’d left Salvation Falls and seven years later he still couldn’t explain it to himself. Guilt could make a man do crazy things.

“Yeah, me.” He looked away, embarrassed, but his gaze soon swung back, hungry for a glimpse of her, no matter the upheaval it caused the rest of him.

Her expression softened, a heady mix of uncertainty and something else that drew him in. Without thinking, he lifted a hand and gently brushed his thumb across the moist dirt clinging to her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered, thick lashes spiked with the remnants of tears creating crescent shadows across the tops of her cheekbones. Her skin was as soft as he remembered and he itched to touch her again, but she’d moved away from his reach and he didn’t dare make a second attempt. She reminded him of a deer caught unaware in the woods, spooked by an unexpected noise.

He cleared his throat, needing to break the strange tension between them. She’d always had the power to do that. Entrance him until everything else but the two of them faded away. “I’m sorry about what happened to your pa.”

He’d wanted to write. Composed the letter a dozen times over in his head. He knew Bertram would get it to her, but everything he came up with sounded trite and lacking. In the end, he’d left it alone, knowing she didn’t want to hear from him either way.

“When they brought your father home I made sure they did right by him. Buried him next to your ma like he’d asked.”

She nodded, the only hint she’d heard. She didn’t look at him. Her small fist clenched and unclenched in the folds of her skirt. The wool shawl had slipped from her shoulders and pooled around her hips. She shivered.

“It’s cold out here, Meredith. Why don’t you come back to the office? I’ll put a pot of coffee on. It’ll warm you up.”

She sniffled and glanced up, her gaze hitting somewhere over his shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was thin and reedy, her throat stripped raw from crying. “I’ve tasted your coffee.”

“My abilities have improved.” One golden eyebrow arched upward. “Slightly,” he amended.

Her gaze dropped to the flowers in his hand. “Why did you bring those?”

He lifted the small bundle and searched for the right words to make her understand, make her hate him a little less. “I knew you’d want to see her grave taken proper care of. And I figured if you were here, you’d put the flowers on yourself.”

She reached up and tucked her hair back into place. He wished she hadn’t. He loved seeing it down. His fingers itched to run through it. He swallowed. No, up was definitely better. Safer.

“So you’re my proxy.” The idea sat with discomfort on her furrowed brow.

“Guess so.”

She was silent a moment, then her chin tilted upward. The formality returned to her voice and he could feel the distance between them grow. “Thank you for that.”

“No need.” He figured he owed her that much. Given how he’d failed her on so many levels, this small gesture was almost laughable but he didn’t want her gratitude. He didn’t deserve it. He bent and replaced the old flowers with the new. When he was done, he took a chance and issued his earlier invitation once again. “How about that coffee? You can tell me if my skills have improved.”